


the devil is in the details

by Anonymous



Category: Black Mirror
Genre: Abuse, Boot Worship, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Episode: s04e01 USS Callister, Foot Jobs, M/M, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-07 04:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16401269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You know, lieutenant,” Daly starts to say and Walton freezes in place, dreading what comes next.Nothing Daly says after a “you know” is ever a good sign.





	the devil is in the details

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flowerdeluce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/gifts).



> This takes place pre-canon, in the time where the USS Callister was just Daly and Walton.
> 
> Heed the tags.

Walton wants to die.

Not that there’s not a single moment that passes in Daly’s simulation that he doesn’t particularly feel that way, but today the feeling comes back in full force. Daly has the weekend off so this means that he has Walton on his hands and knees while he lounges around with a shot of distilled Galagaian venom at his side, staring outwards at the infinite abyss of space while he does fuck all. His arms are shaking and they wobble uncertainly, threatening to give out at any moment because he’s been acting as Daly’s _fucking_ footstool for hours.

Daly makes it so he feels the strain because he wants him to feel it and knows that Walton is fully aware of that fact. He takes perverse pleasure in knowing that the ache lingers in Walton’s muscles even after Daly’s long since logged off of the game. 

“You know, lieutenant,” Daly starts to say and Walton freezes in place, dreading what comes next. Nothing Daly says after a “you know” is ever a good sign. It means he’s cooked up a particularly vile punishment to dole upon him.

If he notices that Walton has gone stiff as a board he says nothing and instead continues on like normal, “You did a passable job cleaning the Callister yesterday. I’m quite surprised, usually, your efforts are… less than satisfactory.”

Cleaning the Callister is one of Daly’s favorite punishments.

By his own design, there’s not a speck of dirt in the USS Callister nor does its shining halls ever become so much as dusty. Still, he takes great pleasure in making Walton crawl around on all fours like an animal with a wash bucket and rag. Demanding that he scrub every inch of the ship, from top to bottom until he can see both of their reflections. (Walton hates seeing himself, hates seeing what he’s become, how he lets himself take every punishment.) Daly watches him like a hawk, kicking and ripping out portions of his hair whenever he thinks Walton’s missed a spot. He never does but it’s not as if that would stop Daly.

He takes a sip of his drink and eyes Walton who lowers his gaze back down to the ground. “Today, I want you to clean something different,” he announces and loosely swirls his finger around the tip of his glass while he waits for Walton to respond. “Do you think you can handle that?”

Like always, Walton responds right away. “Y-yes, Captain,” he says pathetically. All traces of a fight have fled from him since he knows that giving into Daly’s whims will make everything go faster. Agreeing right away is better than the alternative, knowing that seeing Tommy again is just one false move away is like an ever-present weight around his neck. 

Daly nods and moves his feet off of Walton, who manages to sigh in relief just before Daly knocks the wind off of him with one great big kick to his side and sends him scrambling across the floor. As he tries to pull himself back off the ground, Daly looms over him and the corners of his lips curl inward to smile that same smug fucking grin and Walton just wants to puke.

“Don’t bother getting up lieutenant,” Daly chides, making his way back into his captain’s chair and flops into it. He raises a hand and beckons Walton forward with an inward curl of his finger.

Walton does as asked and crawls over on all fours like he knows Daly wants him to. Eventually coming to a stop before the chair, on his knees in front of Daly and waiting for him to make his next move.

To his surprise, Daly moves one foot and Walton flinches in anticipation for the next blow and Daly, damn him, just laughs and laughs like it’s some the most hilarious joke in the world.

“I want you to clean my boots lieutenant,” Daly says. “Do you think you can do that?”

“I,” Walton starts to say, confused. He can see the bottom of Daly’s boots from his position on the floor. The soles of both are as clean as the Callister and he then realizes it must be part of what Daly’s planning. He swallows thickly, “I-Is there something you want me to use, Captain?”

“Well, _lieutenant_ ,” Daly says and leans forward, his chin resting against his fist so that he’s even closer to Walton. “Since you seem to be using it a lot today why not put your tongue to better use, hm?

Walton is horrified, to say the least, and he can see the satisfaction all over Daly’s face as he watches him freeze, paralyzed with indecision.

“I can always take it away again,” Daly not-so-gently reminds him and Walton swallows. 

He remembers when he had drunk just a little too much booze, Daly had been furious and slapped him around a bit before getting tired. He lost his mouth for an entire week and the sick bastard had made it so he felt thirsty for every single miserable second.

(After that incident all the alcohol produced was a mild buzz that only slightly managed to dull Walton’s senses. Not that he stopped drinking it.)

He spends the entire time licking slowly and methodically. Working his tongue into every crevice and cranny of the sole of Daly’s boots. Barely hiding the fact that he’s gagging every step of the way, though Daly is merciful enough not to purposefully make them dirty. Daly’s eyes never leave him as he pushes through his overwhelming nausea and continues on paying special attention to making sure that not a single inch has gone untouched.

Once he’s done with both feet he lets the foot in his hand fall and clamps his mouth shut, his eyes naturally drifting toward the liquor shelves and desperately hopes Daly will leave him alone now.

He’s wrong.

Instead Daly looks thoughtful and Walton watches with fear as Daly’s foot drifts closer and closer to his crotch. 

“Since you were so thorough, why not give you a reward?”

This isn’t particularly new either.

Sometimes Daly likes humiliating Walton sexually. Whether it’s forcing Walton to blow him, or fuck him, or masturbate in front of him depends on his mood

(Walton considers only having to jack off in front of him the best of all available options.). 

Daly moves his boot and rubs him through his pants, rough and unyielding as if trying to get out a particularly stubborn spot on the floor. Walton wants to tear himself away from it but is very well aware that Daly’s punishment for disobedience will be far worse than what he’s doing now. So, instead, he grins and bares it for now. Daly’s ministrations continue as he watches him intently, his gaze intense and more than just a little dehumanizing. To his complete mortification, he becomes hard even though the pain vastly outweighs the pleasure.

“See how disgusting you are lieutenant?” Daly chides, as though he isn’t the one jacking him off right now. “Perverting a good and wholesome ship.” He keeps rubbing Walton who is teetering toward the edge of an orgasm he never wanted or asked for. “But, I suppose it can’t be helped. There is a reason I’m captain after all,” he continues.

The torture continues for just a moment longer until, humiliated, Walton comes in his pants and Daly finally moves his foot off his dick. 

Smiling like the smug prick he always is.

**Author's Note:**

> I was super excited to see you request this again since I had wanted to write it, I hope I've done the scenario justice.
> 
> Happy Halloween~


End file.
